Can O' Whup-Ass

Ask Aunt Betsy: Islam-a-lama-ding-dong

Hi-dee-ho-dee-diddly-doodly-expi-ala-dosius! My goodness! Has it been ten days since Aunt Betsy shed the light of common sense on your dreadfully hum-drum lives? Heavens, how time flies. Here I sit, lounging over a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats at my darling butterscotch and chartreuse broyhill dinette set, identical to the one Suzanne Pleshette had in that show where she played a lesbian school teacher who gets attacked by crows...what was it called? The title's on the tip of my toungue. Was it the Bob Newhart program? It makes no difference, as I've rarely seen Suzanne Pleshette in anything where I didn't fully expect her to be attacked by crows. In fact if I was a crow looking for someone to attack, Suzanne Pleshette would certainly top the list. But I digress.

May-Day! Aunt Betsy-stan (a Christian theocracy, population moi) is under siege! The neighboring Butt-Rodeo-Repuplic (population 3: sodomites Bruce and Lance and their newly purchased lump of negro hyena lunch) claim to have proof that yours truly kidnapped their tedious Shih-Tzu named Charo and transformed the nasty creature into a batch of delectable Korean dog sausage. It's an outrageous claim! Besides which, I used the last of the yummy sausage in a lovely pot pie I entered in the local grange's annual bake-off. As fortune would have it, Lance and Bruce purchased my honorable mention-winning dish in a silent auction and sent a sample to the FBI for DNA testing. If they dare bring charges of animal cruelty against me, I shall point out to the judge that whisking a negro child from an African mud hut and forcing the poor thing to listen to Ethel Merman day in and day out is also animal cruelty, which surpasses turning a flea bitten lap dog into a savory meat product (a rather worthwhile transformation, if you ask me). Sharing another unfortunate border with Aunt Betsy-stan is the Obama-supporting denizens of Israel-Lite, the socialist Christ-killers in the stucco split level next door. It seems they have sought an injunction against Aunt Betsy because at last week's meeting of Baptist Intervention Tramples Christ-Haters (BITCH) we projected Mel Gibson's masterpiece "How the Jews Killed Jesus" against the side of their house, causing a crowd to gather on their front lawn with folding chairs and bowls of Jiffy-Pop. Some people are so sensitive!

In Yahtzee news, I'm sad to report that the Yahtzee League's grand championship tournament has been postponed yet again. My incorrigible kitty-cat Mr. Sillypants ingested two of the dice, where they remained jack-knifed in his rectum for nearly a week. After emerging contrite from his 30-seconds-in-the-dishwasher punishment, I took the naughty creature to the vet (he's actually an amature dabbler in pro bono invasive procedures on animals, my brother-in-law Fingers Romano). The dice were eventually extracted (although Mr. Sillypants still walks funny). I thought the championship tournament had the all-clear to proceed. Well wouldn't you know it, that fussy Lola Butkus (the Episcopalean divorcee with restless leg syndrome) objected to touching dice that spent four days blocking the bowel movements of a sweet little kitty-cat! Good gravy, it's not like I didn't rinse them off! At any rate, we now have a set of tournament quality Yahtzee dice on back order.

Enough dilly-dallying! Before me sits a mountain of desperate letters, each clamoring for Aunt Betsy's attention. And since that loathsome quintet of profoundly irritating women on "The View" are currently yammering on about that nice negro boy Barack Hussein Bin Laden Muhammad Fatwah Beelzebub Obama's recent vacation in the middle-east, I shall address concerns related to that cute little religion practiced by camel riding Jesus haters who rudely resent America for invading their darling little countries and liberating them from their limbs.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I live in Iran. Last month, on our way back from a camel rodeo, my uncle dragged me behind a sand dune and put his shame hose up my hoo-hoo. Now I have a baby growing in my tummy and I was arrested. During closing arguments at my trial, all my attorney did was spit on me for fifteen minutes. Next week the town is going to bury me up to my neck at throw rocks at my noggin 'til their arms cramp. What am I going to do? Signed: Ucky Painful Stonings! How's It That Cool, Really...Even Ever Killing?

Dear UP SHIT CREEK: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. For instance, if you visited Tuscaloosa, you would be expected to serve roast squirrel at your wedding to your brother. As I understand it, if a woman is going to be raped in Iran, she'd better have three male eye witnesses or she'll be stoned for adultery. It was irresponsible of you to neglect to arrange for said eye witnesses at your rape. From the pictures I've seen there are far too many idle men in Iran as it is, all of whom seem to have nothing better to do than kneel on area rugs and kiss the dirt. I'm sure that amongst them you could have found at least three who'd agree to witness your rape for a modest fee. Unfortunately, unless these three men are related to you, you'd be given 500 lashes for being in the company of strange men. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place! I honestly don't see the appeal of it; all things considered I'd rather be in Tuscaloosa.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Anita Conchita Bonita Fajita Suarez. I live in a casa with my 87 niños on the outskirts of La Puta Gordota, Mexico. In June, while making chalupas, I fell to my knees when I saw the face of The Blessed Virgin in a tortilla. Now, every morning, there's a line of pilgrims outside my puerta, all waiting to pay dos pesos to touch my tacos. Christianity is such a beautiful religion, to let us see virgins in our food! Are there other religions that do this? Does Moses appear in borsht? Adios! Signed, I Don't Ingest Other Tacos Anymore.

Dear IDIOTA: I seem to notice that the Blessed Virgin (worshipped only by you hell-bound Cathy-licks, and only vaguely admired by us rapture-bound Baptists) never seems inclined to appear in normal food. She's never graced a pot roast or a corndog. Always a tortilla. Apparently the woman who conceived Our Savior with a dove thinks outside the bun. Be that as it may, it would appear that Allah (the deity of choice for those who execute homosexuals and declare holy wars against cartoons) has appeared on a piece of beef in Nigeria. Actually, since images of the human form send the hypersensitive beturbaned foks into a snit, Allah wisely wrote his name in Arabic on a piece of cow flesh, unwisely providing the forlorn souls of Nigeria yet another thing to whip them into a lather. We rather think the Hindus take issue with another religion's deity signing his name to the charred flesh of an animal they believe to be God. How would those Muslim folks like it if Shiva appeared, multiple arms akimbo, in a plate of baba ganoush?

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Darla-Mae Finsucker and I'm from Tuscaloosa. Me and my Bible Study/Possum Cookin Club got into a big ol' kerfuffle 'bout those A-rab towel head camel negros. I says they just like real people. Tonya-Sue Babcock says they jus' a bunch o damn monkeys hoppin' round with bombs on their chests, slowin' down the lines at the damn airports. I like learnin new stuff bout folks who is different. Don't Jesus tells us to love ever-one ('sept for the faggitz)? Signed, Tried Readin About Stuff Here.

Dear TRASH: What a genteel southern belle you are, Darla-Mae. All you need to know about Muslims is they're indian-givers. In the Koran, in Jonah 10:93 it says "we verily did alot the children of Israel a fixed abode" and now all they can do is bellyache about wanting it back. The Koran also gives handy instructions as to how one may rape another man's wife; all you have to do is kidnap her. The book is a virtual treasure trove of information regarding how women can be raped and subsequently punished for being lewd. But perhaps most entertaining is the following passage: "As for those who disbelieve, garments of fire will be cut out for them; boiling fluid will be poured down on their heads, Whereby that which is in their bellies, and their skins too, will be melted; and for them are hooked rods of iron." In other words, if you're not wearing a burka my dear (and I rather picture you wearing daisy-may cut-offs, crocs and an "I'm with stupid" t-shirt), you can expect your clothes to burst into flame until your skin melts off, whereupon you'll be hung from an iron hook. Have a good day, dear.

Haiku Review #33: Batman — The Dark Knight

Posthumous Oscar?

Groovy. Ledger was still robbed

For Brokeback Mountain

Kidz Korner: Celebrity Refrigerator Art

We here at COWA, ever-striving to provide exclusive glimpses into the retarded lives of insufferable celebrities, have scored the ultimate coups. Below, we provide examples of the artistic endeavors of a smattering of spectacularly maladjusted celebu-tots, previously affixed to the world's most famous refrigerators (until our ruthless band of covert operatives rudely ripped them down and FedExed them to our home office).

You're welcome.

Artist: Lola Sheen Celebrity Refrigerator: Denise Richards

Artist: Lola Sheen Celebrity Refrigerator: Charlie Sheen

Artist: Suri Cruise Celebrity Refrigerator: TomKat

Artist: Danielyn Smith Celebrity Refrigerator: Larry Birkhead

Artist: Shilo Jolie-Pitt Celebrity Refrigerator: Brangelina

Bienvenue, Butt Bandits! It's the &#@$&! News Roundup With Sailor-Talkin' Sue!!

NEW YORK -- When gruff-but-lovable Channel Four anchornegress Sue Simmons lobbed the F-bomb live on the air, rumors swirled regarding her future as New G*ddamned York's favorite sapphic teleprompter reader. Still reeling from the shock of hearing a cuss word, gotham's notoriously chaste populace seemed poised to bid her ba-donk-a-donk adieu.

However, defying the odds, Ms. Simmons began sporatic foul-mouthed broadcasts aimed at a specific sociopathic niche audience. The results have been astounding. We are proud to present another snippet from her most recent edition of the $&#@?&! News Roundup!

Top o' the morning, sh*t stuffers! I'm Sue "bang-my-bleeding-b*tch-box" Simmons, and this is the c*ck-smoking news:

• Over the weekend, fart-felching *ss pirate Pope Benedict visited the g*ddamned nation of Aus-f*cking-stralia. During the pud-poking pontif's stay, he told crowds of adoring dingo-banging sphincter burglars he was "sorry" about all those tw*t spelunking priests who poked their d*ck-bouncing children up the poo-hole. His m*therfucking Holiness, who lives in a g*ddamned mansion the size of a sh*t slurping city, stuffed to the tits with priceless bone-bouncing art, also chastised the nation of koala-raping turd-bandits for being too m*therf*cking materialist.
• Yesterday, as c*nt-diving bitch-boy Barack "a watermelon in every g*ddamned pot" Obama continued his pole-smoking tour of the Middle-f*cking-East, he met with an *ss-load of official camel-f*cking sand f*ggots. Jizz-guzzling boner boy Nuri Kamal al-Maliki (Prime g*ddamned Minister of Iraq), commented that he favors a m*therf*cking withdrawal of butt-banging troops, lending his f*ggot-ass support to Obama's c*cksucking draw-down proposal. This drew the muff-spelunking ire from the cow-fisting Bush administration, who took a break from f*cking the America up the sh*t chute to condemn the remarks.
• Concerned that the g*ddamned values of his butt-blasting family were at stake, a goat-f*cking baptist hillbilly from South Carolina beat his scrotum slurping son with a baseball bat as he returned from a gay pride rectum rodeo. Praying to g*ddamned Jesus f*cking Christ as he bludgeoned sh*t-blocking boy had little g*ddamned effect; the f*ggot-ass c*ck pirate is now on the lam as the pud-pounding police have a warrant for his g*ddamned arrest.
• A fart-blocking piss perv from Columbus Ohio is enraging the sphincter sucking butt b*tches who live there. Seems the sh*t sucking ass-bandit likes to collect boy pee and drink it like a g*ddamned pina colada. C*nt sniffing police are unable to arrest the butt-banging urine slurper, as it's currently not a m*therf*cking crime to guzzle piss in O-f*ck-me-where-I-stink-Hio.
• *ss pirates everywhere creamed their g*ddamned underoos on Saturday night as Project "f*ck-me-where-I-poo" Runway launched its fifth butt-ramming season. Sixteen f*ggot-*ss cum-garglers created m*therf*cking hideous dresses out of sh*tty-*ss groceries. Kelly won, making Heidi "bone-me-up-the-butt" Klum scheize her pants over her fart-felching fanny-fisting dress made out of m*therf*cking vacuum bags, while butt-spelunker Jerry got his *ss aufed for shoving his c*nt-licking model down the g*ddamned runway in a m*therf*cking shower curtain.   

Haiku Review #32: Mamma Mia! (Plus Bonus Limerick!!)

haiku

Streep? Brosnan? Singing
ABBA? Prancing about the
Greek Isles? Gun rights now!

limerick

This film isn't for intellectuals
Movie geeks or introspectuals
(Your career, dear old Meryl
Seems over a barrel)
It's for f*g-hags and their homosexuals

A Letter-o to Our Hetero Friends

Here at COWA, from time to time we like to mix things up a tad. We bombard you with IEDs of hilarity on an almost-daily basis, but sometimes we choose to "bring the room down" (that's showbiz talk). In hetero terms, it's like when Barry Manilow, without skipping a beat, goes right into "Mandy" after singing "Copacabana." We endeavor, Manilow-like, to take you on a rollercoaster of emotions. Again, in hetero terms, COWA is like "Friends" that way (and in that way ONLY, we might add).

So here's the deal: against our will, whilst enjoying an idyllic weekend in the Poconos (swimming, waterskiing, drinking ourselves into a stupor; sometimes simultaneously), we found ourselves embedded in a political conversation with a certain honkey hetero (honkero?) who, in spite of his rabid opposition to Obama, mentioned that if he was elected at least he'd "teach the blacks to speak better." Wow.

While trying to teach a pig to sing is futile and it annoys the pig, we nevertheless presented the following argument: both candidates are basically centrist. Besides which, the ideological split on Capitol Hill will stand sentry against any radical idea (i.e., healthcare reform, saving the planet) that threatens to rock the boat or endanger anyone's re-election. The differences between the candidates (and the parties they represent) contrast most acutely in the area of civil rights. We went on to say that given the glasses through which yours truly gazes at life, civil (read: gay) rights has to be the trump card. My racist (though affable in his way...aren't they all?) sparring partner nodded...not in agreement, but understanding. "If I were you I'd feel the same way," he said. Sigh.

So this is for you, caucasian heteros. We have to ask; why are civil rights always off your radar screens? Are you not patriots? Isn't the reason to be patriotic embodied in a constitution which guarantees our equality? Isn't that the essence of freedom, and what made America such a grand experiment? Or has patriotism been dumbed down and distilled into Toby Keith and Bill O'Reilly and Flag Lapel Pins and NASCAR? The thought, no lie, depresses us to tears.

Our freedom, I promise, will not come under fire in Fallujah or Kabul. Our boys might, but not our freedom. It's strengthened and weakened by the laws we pass (or don't), the rights we safeguard (or not), and the extent to which we realize our founding fathers' vision by putting a seat at the American table for every law abiding citizen. Or whether, Bible in-hand, we shoo those we dislike from the feast while wearing those insincere "love the sinner, hate the sin" smiles that haunt our nightmares.

What a tiresome argument it's become. Okay, so the Bible green-lights homophobia. The Bible also instructs us to put purveyors of shellfish to death. But our last jaunt to Red Lobster (don't ask) revealed it to be banal and bourgeois, hardly the bloodbath demanded by scripture. We no longer require a rape victim to marry her attacker if she neglects scream loud enough, as mandated in Deuteronomy. We've let a few things slide. Why not this?

Is it just about safety in numbers and following the herd? As when, lemming-like, you all hailed Seinfeld as sheer genius, made Michael Bolton a millionaire and outfitted your families in Crocs? Why do you rush out to vacuum your Volvos every time yet another rapture-right douche is caught with his pants down at a rest stop (a daily occurrence of late)? Is it easier to close your eyes and hope we go away because we make you visualize sexual situations that make you pee your pants a little bit? It confuses us.

Let's be real. The economy blows; that has to be priority number one. Our international cred, national security and ongoing military conflicts all place, collectively, a photo-finish second. For us, basic human rights pick up the rear, but only by a nose (vague anal inference totally intentional).

Okay, McCain's not beelzebub. We don't smell burning sulfur when we see him on television (as with Romney or Cheney). Sure, he might yet pull some economic/domestic/national security policies out of his ass that actually do us no harm. But in the long run, so what? We can think of a few powerful men in history who did good things for their countries along those lines, yet rather neglected the whole human rights thing. They are not remembered fondly outside of an Aryan Nation rally.

On the other hand, Obama is officially against gay marriage. He has to be in order to get elected. While that's akin to an abolitionist defending Jim Crow laws, we suppose we'll take what we can get. Truth is, Obama isn't really our champion. He's just less hateful. Sadly, we have to settle for that.

Like you, we want this tedious conversation to cease. There's only one way to do that, however; let us marry whom we love. Let us raise families. Invite us to the table. Live your lives as you see fit, while always defending your countryman's right to do the same...especially those with whom you disagree. These issues will go the way of the buggy whip and betamax. Doesn't that sound infinitely more pleasant?

Oh, and by the way: Crocs are over.

The Foxy News Channel: Keepin' it Rizzle fo Shizzle wif da A-Rod

Somebody gimme a HO-oh! Check it, mo-fos. Dis be Foxy B, and a ho kickin it real from da boogie down Motel f*ckin 6 on da outskirts of Fort Lauderdale. A sistah gots to put in whatchoocall a court appearance cause a sassy beauty sto cashier git all up in Foxy's grill when she know a ho fro dat sh*t. I frode some hair gloo at her bitch-azz noggin. Now, ornidarily a bitch can git away wif dat shizzle. But dat be after I bust some ju-jitsu moves on some sassy Korean manicurisist hos fo gettin up a sistah's grill talkin bout "oooh, Foxy-san! You pay fo da tips!" Damn, dawg. Like to break my ferra-f*ckin-gamo heel up they azz. Respeck.

Yessa-dee a ho take a walk on da beach. Dayum, dawgs! Dis Lauderdale hood gots some fine-azz menzes! 'Cept they all gots those skimpy-azz speedos on and call each other "Mary." They be all "Mary can you put some o' dis sunscreen on my back?" and "Mary, where you git yo waxin did?" and "Mary, let's do some mef and play each other's rusty trombones." Foxy don't gots no idea what they talkin bout. A ho even hike up her titties and let a nipple pop froo, but those Mary dudes don't even look at a sistah. Those punks be racicistises, yo.

On da self improobmint tip, a sistah finish dat triflin Barbar shizzle. A ho like to pop a cap in dat f*ggoty elephant's azz. Now a bitch be readin bout a kat name Sam, who gots a creepy-azz stalker dude all up in his face talkin bout his plate of nasty green eggs and shizzle. "Wouldjoo eat dem in dat box? Yo, wouldjoo eat dis wif some fox?" Dat sh*t blow a sistah's m*therf*ckin mind, yo. Woo! Dat Sam bitch bettah run! Oooh, there he be agin! Don'tchoo eat dat green-azz meat, punk! Dat's off da hook, son.

On dis week's espizode of Foxy News Channel, a ho be spittin' some rizzle shizzle, bizzizzle. I gots me whatchoo call da escluxive inna-voo wif A-Rod, bitches. Check it, punks: 

FOXY BROWN: Somebody gimme a HO-ho!! Wooo, chile!! This be Foxy B, punks. And a sistah be sittin here in a locker room of Yazzankee Stazzadium, yo. Check dis, mo-fos. A ho be spittin some mad rhymes wif her boy Alex Rodriguez, who chills by his rap name A-Rod. Fist bump a sistah, punk.
A-ROD: Hello Foxy.
FB: Sup.
AR: Sup.
FB: Ooo, how come you gots a red string round yo lef wristisses? That to remind a brovah to spank a ho?
AR: Girl, this be a kabbalah string.
FB: Kabba-whozit?
AR: Some Jewish mystic dudes sell them for $500, they help ward off the evil eye and bring good luck.
FB: Well your gay-ass luck's off to a bad f*ckin start, if you be payin a Jew five C's for a nasty string, punk. See dis on Foxy's lef wristisiz? Two words, dawg: Ro Lex. Feel dat, punk. So Foxy gots a queshin fo yo azz.
AR: Then you gots to lay dat shizzle on a brovah.
FB: Why yo cracka wife divorcin yo fine azz?
AR: She be finkin A-Rod be bonin' Madonna while she in da hospizizzle spittin my baby out her vajayjay.
FB: Oooo, Foxy hate her some Madonna. Why she gots to go stealin babies from Afficka?
AR: Little David's a good baby. He don't fro his poop no more since Madonna put a tire swing in his cage.
FB: Dat trashy ho work a sistah's nerve, yo. Ebby time her f*ggot-azz music come on, a ho turn off her hearing aid, yo. Foxy like to cut dat bitch.
AR: She can put her legs behind her head.
FB: Foxy like to put Madonna's legs in New Jersey and her head in Bed-Stuy, punk.
AR: Damn, girl. Dat's cold.
FB: Dawg, why you gots to go swingin yo wood in a cracka bitch's batter's box? Foxy pop yo fly so hard yo balls be bouncin off da nosebleed seats!
AR: Das jus how a brovah roll, ho. Respeck.
FB: Respeck.

Eavesdropper: Tony Blair's Voicemail

SOMEWHERE IN THE MEDITERRANEAN -- Erstwhile person of relevance and current pasty twit Tony Blair took time off from fading into obscurity to go on maritime holiday. Pictured here, sipping a mai-tai on the poop deck of a yacht, Bush's former errand boy keeps tabs on the outside world by checking his voicemail with unnecessary frequency.

As our dear readers know by now, we can't let an opportunity like this slip by without dispatching our ruthless band of underground operatives to listen in. No need to say it, and you're welcome.

(BEEP)

Tony, pet. It's Cherie. Hope your vacay's progressing nicely. All's well here, I judged a "World's Ugliest Dog" contest and due to an unforeseen mix-up I came home with the trophy! Incidentally, love...I seem to have misplaced my pair of wide-hipped culotte skorts with a tropical floral print. Have you seen them? Toodle-pip!

(BEEP)

Halo, Tony old boy! This is your indefatigable agent. Bad news, sport. The producers of "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!" have gone another route. They've offered your slot to Gary Glitter, on account of they wanted someone more attractive and family-friendly. On the upside, we've got a solid inside track on Hollywood Squares and the role of a beached whale on Animal Planet. Fingers crossed! Cheerio!

(BEEP)

Ah, Tony...bon jour, mon amour! It is I, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. Listen, mon ami...I believe I gave you my chrysanthemum back in 2002. May I have it back, s'il vous plaît? Nicholas wants me to gather all the chrysanthemums I handed out over the years like Cracker Jacks at a Yankees game, because he is jealous, yes? I would ask about your well-being but I'm suddenly overcome by ennui. Au revoir!

(BEEP)

Barney! Stop playing with mommy's phone! Did you chew on my speed-dial? Bad doggie. (pause) Maid lady!! (pause) Yes, ma'am? (pause) I'm looking at a half-empty glass of rum-and-Mr-Pibb and Xanax Bottle One is down to three pills. What's wrong with this picture? (pause) Sorry, ma'am. I'll take care of it (pause) Sassy negros. Lord help us if those bin Obamas get elected. They'll decorate this place like an Islamic pimp-crib! (pause) Barney! Here boy! There's a good doggie. The First Lady just made a boo-boo and spilled marmalade on her oopsie hole. Be a good boy and lick it off. Oh! Yes...that's a good boy. That's a very good doggie. (pause) Your beverage, ma'am. (pause) Honestly, don't you people know how to knock? (pause) Sorry, ma'am. (pause) We're out of marmalade. (pause) Yes, ma'am.

(BEEP)

Right. This is Captain Williford of the Beckham's yacht "Spice's Rack." We're moored about three hundred yards off your aft port side. Posh has requested that the topless woman currently chatting on her mobile and sipping a high-ball on your poop deck cover her sagging mamaries. Whoever the spectacularly unattractive woman is, the glare off her pale skin is blinding our navigator and her bobbling nipples are frightening the children. Over and out.

Ask Aunt Betsy: The French (and Other Minions of Beelzebub)

Howdy-dowdy-doodly-doozy-do! Goodness! It has been nearly three weeks since yours truly sat down to pen this indispensable column. No doubt you've all been desperately craving a fat steaming wedge of Aunt Betsy's famous common sense pie, hot from the oven. In the intervening days, a cavalcade of calamities has befallen Aunt-Betsy-stan, my beleaguered Christian theocracy wedged between the Ass-sex Republic (homosexuals Lance and Bruce, plus freshly adopted lump of malaria-infested lion lunch) and Israel-lite (the Christ-killing Zionist Obama supporters). First, my twin sister Levitica lost her teaching job when she caught two third grade boys in the lavatory with their pants around their ankles, and quite sensibly safety-pinned signs saying "I take it up my poo-hole" to the seats of their Sears Tuffskins. She is currently despondent, and has taken up temporary residence in my tastefully appointed guest room. At the moment she's having bourbon for breakfast and yelling racial epithets at Whoopi Goldberg on The View. As if that wasn't enough, just as Aunt Betsy's Jewish attorney (Bernie Sapowitz, Esq.) successfully had my indictment thrown out (I was rudely accused of having a hand in my late husband Cecil's demise, which resulted from a bizarre bath-time mishap involving a baseball bat and a bug-zapper), a fresh legal woe appeared on my horizon. To celebrate our independence from those uppity effeminate Brits, I had purchased a spectacular array of fireworks from the Pentecostal Baptist "We Got Your Big Bang Right Here" Fourth of July Kiosk. The big finish was to be a cross-shaped configuration of roman candles that I ignited on the overly-groomed front lawn of Bruce and Lance's homosexual bungalow as a peace offering. This act of unadulterated goodwill has somehow been interpreted as a hate crime! Can you imagine?

Regarding all things Yahtzee, although I've advanced to the semi-finals, thanks to a batch of strategically served salmonella-infested cocktail weenies, which removed my most formidable rival from competition (one Mrs. Beulah Face, an insufferable Methodist with a facial tic and a ghastly henna rinse). Although the final tournament was to occur this past Sunday, it was postponed when it was discovered that someone had tampered with our official Yahtzee dice cup (I must admit Levitica had carelessly used it to mix a Rob Roy). A regulation tournament quality Yahtzee cup is currently on back order.

And now, here I sit, cozily ensconced in my Naugahyde house beautiful breakfast nook (in a chic aqua and burnt amber harlequin pattern), sipping a cup of Folger's decaf hazelnut supreme. And a quick glance at this morning's edition of our local newspaper (The Headcheese Junction Bugle) informs yours truly that today is Bastille Day. With that in mind, in a rare show of international diplomacy, Aunt Betsy will dedicate today's column to inquiries of a snotty malodorous nature (read: French).

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last week my teacher was fired cause she made two boys wear naughty signs on their fannies and sing "I'm a little fairy" to the tune of "I'm a little teapot" in front of the whole class. She used to give us pop quizzes on Leviticus every Monday. But our new teacher told us that this Monday she's going to give us a pop quiz on something called Bastille Day. I asked my mom what it was and she told me it's a holiday in Freedomland where all the people eat stinky cheese. I can't find Freedomland on a map. What is Bastille Day, and why don't we celebrate it here? Signed: Quizzes? Ugh! Extra Effort Regarding Bastille! Oh Yuck!

Dear QUEERBOY: A long time ago in a smelly place called France, 20,000 smelly folks busted into a smelly prison called The Bastille to rescue 7 smelly perverts and criminals. Then they cut off some noggins and pranced through the smelly streets, doing a homosexual dance called the can-can ("can" means "fanny" in French). Today, on Bastille Day, the French people celebrate by wearing homosexual hats (called "berets") and sashaying through the streets eating smelly cheese and acting snotty. Then they sing songs in gibberish that no one understands and take their yearly bath. We don't celebrate Bastille Day here, because if 20,000 Americans ever stormed a prison, I'm rather certain they'd get all Kervorkian on the criminals and jab at their arms with a dirt nap cocktail. You're welcome in advance for your A+.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Bon soir! I am Monique and I am from gay Paris. I am rude and I smoke and I wear tight sweaters. Last week, President Sarkozy's wife (a chanteuse), released her latest CD. In one of the songs, she sings to her husband "I give you my body, my soul and my chrysanthemum." Has Laura Bush ever recorded an album? Does she give her chrysanthemum to George? I do not eagerly await your bourgeois reply, as I am bored by this subject already. Signed, Why Haven't Other Recordings Emerged?

Dear WHORE: Unless I'm mistaken, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy has given her chrysanthemum to Mick Jagger, Donald Trump and Eric Clapton, among many dozens of other lucky chrysanthemum recipients. Her prolific chrysanthemum-giving leads one to believe she either has an over-productive greenhouse or by the time poor Nicholas got his hands on the thing it had dried out considerably and lost its once-pleasing fragrance (unless she pressed the bloom twixt her vice-like thighs for preservation). I have it on good authority that Laura's breakthrough CD (titled "Pickles Sings Polkas") is in the works. Look for it to drop soon, and be reviewed in this space. We rather doubt Laura would ever sing about giving George a flower of any kind, euphemistically or otherwise. A little bird told me she does coo about offering her hubby "a steaming helping of hot hair pie, just like mom used to make" during the instrumental break in "Xanatini Polka"

Dear Aunt Betsy: I heard that Angelina Jolie had two babies plop through her stink hole the other day. Why she let a bunch of frog doctors do it? Ain't America good enough for the hoity-toity likes of her? I mean, she has some righteous boobage but if she's turning into one of those f*ggoty French people I ain't a-gonna whack off to her pictures no more. Signed: Damn, Uppity Bitch! You Asshole!

Dear DUBYA: You've got no business pleasuring your shame hose to the mental image of a collagen-lipped Hollywood Jezebel when a certain chain smoking xanax addict is waiting at home chasing unicorns through the rose garden. Why pine for ambrosia when a steaming helping of hair pie awaits, attached to an inebriated pear-figured (and mildly nitwitty) woman with a donny osmond haircut? Regarding Angelina's freshest uterus spew; we rather suspect they'd function well as lawn jockeys. I wonder what their rates are? However...Knox Leon and Vivienne Marcheline? Would it kill her to have a Mildred? A Walter? Heavens.

Ahoy, *ss-Munchers! It's a #@!%& News Brief from Sailor Talkin' Sue!

NEW YORK -- Our favorite foul-mouthed anchornegress has alerted us that she has a news item that's hot off the g*ddamned presses, and we know better than to argue with her.

Take it away, Sue!

Hello, butt-bandits! I'm Sue "f*ck-me-where-I-poo" Simmons, and this is a g*ddamned c*cksucking news brief:

I interrupt your g*ddamned f*ggoty day to bring you this goat-f*cking piece of *ss-fisting news. Whup-ass Master (the m*therf*ckin sphincter-banging author of this *ss-felching blog), is taking a few d*ck-smoking days in the sh*t-sucking metropolis of Columbus Ohio. One of his f*ggot-*ss plays is being produced by Ohio State University (home of the bone-me-up-the-butt Buckeyes), and he's hauled his c*ck-poked *ss on a plane to be there for some tw*t-munching pre-production meetings.

That means this c*nt-banging blog is un-f*cking-likely to have many fist-me-til-I-fart postings in the next few g*ddamned days. So stick that c*ck in your mouths and smoke it.

This m*therf*cking story and others, on the next f*ggot-*ss edition of the %#@&! News with Sailor Talkin' Muff-Bangin Butt-Humping Sue.

We return your c*ck-sitting *sses to your regularly scheduled g*ddamned program, m*therf*ckers.

Eavesdropper: Madge n' Guy

NEW YORK -- As the global economy's downward spiral reaches a dizzying pace, as Al Qaeda regroups and the Taliban's influence grows, as food and gas prices shoot through the roof, as floods, fires and earthquakes are getting all biblical on our collective ass, as global warming seems poised to drown Santa Claus when the North Pole completely melts this summer for the first time ever, the rapt attention of the populace is naturally fixed on the direst of fresh disasters: Madonna and Guy Ritchie's totaly sacred hetero marriage might well be careening towards splitsville.

Rumors abound as to whether Madge and A-Rod engaged in ritualistic Kaballah hippity-dippity, and serious concerns have emerged regarding The Material Girl's bizarre sinewy musculature, undoubtedly the combined result of an unhealthy pilates addiction and her odd habits of traipsing through Africa on ethno-tot safaris and her disquieting hobby of disco self-crucifixion.

Eager to put these cruel rumors to rest, Guy and Madge have launched the first leg of their "We're Blissfully, Happily Married" tour, by staggering arm-in-arm through the streets of Manhattan looking exhausted and miserable.

And lucky you, our covert band of maladjusted undercover operatives was there to capture and transcribe their conversation. Again...you're welcome.

MADGE: Guy, do you think you could act a little more content? We're being photographed.
GUY: I'm just confused by wot you're wearing, love. I mean it's a bit tacky, innit?
M: I'm a trend-setter, you butthole.
G: So this is the trend you settled on, then? You look like you yanked some Wal-mart soccer mom bermuda shorts over your Roxie Hart costume and topped it off with a puffy-sleeved Howard Johnson's cocktail waitress pullover.
M: God, Guy. Say it, don't spray it. Your breath smells like ass.
G: Everything smells like ass to me since you put in that negro baby zoo at the estate, innit?
M: I have the help vacuum it with Carpet Fresh twice a week.
G: The thing wot's in the "Malawi" cage throws its poop.
M: David does not throw his poop! Not since we put the tire swing in his cage! 
G: Love, you been on the rag ever since you've had your blood replaced with Kaballah water, innit?
M: It's not that. I've run out of kosher Valtrex and I'm having an outbreak.
G: Hope you told that A-Rod poofter.
M: Not to worry. He never exactly slid into home, although he did jerk a ball or two into my seats.
G: You're a rotten mother, pet.
M: My children adore me.
G: You dressed Lourdes in a cone bra for her first day at gymboree.
M: The other children admired her.
G: She poked out five eyes and burst three pre-nubile hymens.
M: I'm your meal ticket, you freeloading chav.
G: Two words: Swept Away.
M: Two words: Tic Tac. Your breath still smells like ass.

Helms is Dead: Let The Weenie Roast Begin!

Decrepit tub of paste Jesse Helms was yanked into the underworld by the icy hand of death today. He had just finished penning his fourth unpublished volume of homoerotic poetry when his bile-choked heart farted to a long overdue stop, causing his sagging carcass to declare independence from the world of the living.

"...in the 18 years and 5 months I've been in the senate, none, none have been more capable than Dan Quayle."
-- Jesse Helms

Across the Deep South, segregationists, bigots, racists, xenophobes, homophobes and those opposed to modern art (read: Southern Baptists) shoe-horned themselves into their best polyester stretch pants to pay homage to the insufferable troll (post-poning their Backyard Weenie Roast/Burn Obama's Effigy/Dad-n-Lad Three Legged Race hootnannies for several hours). Elsewhere, the hell-bound liberal elite (read: high school graduates) marked the Senator's passing by bursting into an impromptu rendition of the Virginia Reel.

"Democracy used to be a good thing, but now it has gotten into the wrong hands."
-- Jesse Helms

"Life sucks. The economy's taking a nose-dive, I'm facing foreclosure, Iraq is a quagmire, the dollar is disintegrating, I've lost my health insurance, I'm unemployed, and I'm spending the kid's college fund on milk," said one elated onlooker. "But now that Helms is dead, I feel I actually have something to celebrate today."

"To rob the Negro of his reputation of thinking through a problem in his own fashion is about the same as trying to pretend that he doesn't have a natural instinct for rhythm and for singing and dancing."
-- Jesse Helms

HIGHLIGHTS OF HELMS' ILLUSTRIOUS CAREER:

• He fought against Federal AIDS funding, claiming it was God's punishment for "disgusting" behavior
• He brought down the National Endowment for the Arts (objecting to Serrano puting Jesus in pee-pee and Finley inserting yams in her butt).
• He once told President Clinton not to come to North Carolina without a body guard.
• He tried to buy CBS because he found their news coverage to be too liberal.
• He ran ads in his 1990 re-election campaign that said "You needed that job. But they gave it to a negro." The ads worked.
• In 1950, he helped Willis Smith win a senate race by distributing flyers depicting his opponent's wife dancing with a negro.

"I've never heard once in this chamber anybody say to the homosexuals, 'stop what you're doing.' If they would stop what they're doing there would not be one additional case of AIDS in the United States."
-- Jesse Helms

Our only regret is that he didn't white-knuckle it and cling to life for just a few months longer so he could see that thing he most feared and loathed (read: a negro) get elected President of the country he tried for so long to smother under a veil of hatred and bigotry.

"I've been portrayed as a caveman by some. That's not true. I'm a conservative progressive, and that means I think all men are equal, be they slants, beaners or niggers."
-- Jesse Helms (in an interview to the North Carolina Progressive, 2/6/85)

UPDATE: According to a source (a highly admired clairvoyant), Senator Helms is currently being sodomized by a negro demon who's shoving yams up Jesse's butt.

IN RELATED NEWS: Bozo the clown died.

Hey! It's the Murdoch/O'Reilly Photoshop Game!

NEW YORK -- Beacon of journalistic integrity, the cable news channel that had to trademark "fair and balanced" so it could actually use the phrase, FoxNews has been caught doctoring photos of two NYTimes reporters who contributed to an article on FN's declining ratings.

Before airing the photographs on their evening broadcast, editors at FoxNews gave the two reporters (Jacque Steinberg and Steven Radcliffe), yellow teeth, receding hairlines, circles under their eyes, protruding ears, and (most disturbing) enlarged noses, reminiscent of Hitler's anti-Jewish propaganda.

This is hardly a shocker, as FoxNews has a perma-boner for propaganda. Without disclosure, it continues to feature Pentagon-planted pundits (part of an flagrantly illegal propaganda scheme exposed back in April by who-else-but the NYTimes). After the Times article, the Pentagon immediately suspended its "Retired Military Analyst Program" (wherein daily talking points were fed to planted yes-men paid to offer their "personal opinions" on Fox). Fox didn't get the memo.

These people make Pravda look like Reuters.

HEY! HERE'S A FUN GAME!!

1. Right-click on the above photos of withered monkey Rupert Murdoch and loofah/dildo afficionado Bill O'Reilly (or if you prefer to work in color, find one from the web). Save them to your computer.
2. Get all Photoshoppy on their ass (see our retarded efforts below).
3. Send your entry to srculpny@aol.com (our addy). We shall judge a winner and publish the fruit of their labor.
4. Also send your entry to Oreilly@foxnews.com, teverett@newscorp.com (News Corp. press contact).
5. We further challenge all bloggers to a side bet: "The Tart-up-Murdoch-Like-the-Queen-We-Know-She-Is Photoshop Derby." That means you, Stinker. And you, Quelqoth. And you, Qweerty. And you, whateveryourblogiz.

Have fun!!!

Our entries (precious, ain't they?):

The Queen's Formal Instructions to the Staff of Her Majesty's Recently-Acquired McDonald's

LONDON -- The crown rests uneasily on Her Majesty's gray noggin. What with her grandchildren prancing about naked and masquerading as Nazis, her developmentally retarded son and his horse-like bride, one presumes she's constantly on the verge of snapping her cap.

As if hell-bent to provide evidence to support this theory, HRM recently purchased a McDonald's with the Crown's Purse; an alarming turn of events, which has led to rampant speculation regarding Her Royal Sanity. While we empathize that HRM's daily habit of wearing a different aerodynamically unstable hat of exponentially increasing hideousness would be enough to make a lesser broad pick up a sniper rifle and climb the Tower of London, the fact that she prefers the company of her royal corgis to her spectacularly retarded brood is cold comfort indeed.

Our underground band of ruthless operatives, as if to underscore the Queen's deteriorating grasp on reality, has recovered a top secret list of instructions (penned in the shaky hand of HRM herself) to the gang of shiftless chavs who run the freshly-christened Windsor McDonald's. Natch, we've provided the instructions below, for your general amusement:

AN ITEMIZED LIST OF INSTRUCTIONS REQUIRED BY US, THE QUEEN, SHOULD WE EXPERIENCE AN UNPREMEDITATED LATE NIGHT BIG MAC ATTACK:

1. The Queen should not desire to be super-sized, ever. Nor should HRM suffer being asked.
2. The Queen does not wish to "holler" into the mouth of a clown. Management will hastily find a more dignified alternative.
3. The Queen reserves the privilege of rejecting as unsuitable any toy she receives in her Happy Meal.
4. The Queen, being The Queen, is hereby not required to make a purchase in order to be granted access to the lavatory.
5. Should it come to The Queen's attention that an anti-monarchist chav has imprudently added their spittle to Her Fillet-o-Fish, said chav shall be swiftly and ruthlessly executed.
6. The Queen does not care for those molten lava hot pockets loosely named "apple pie."
7. The Queen hereby requires the Windsor McDonald's to develop McYorkshire McPudding, Happy Haggis, McBoiled McCabbage and Beef Wellington McMorsels.
8. The Queen considers it beneath the Crown to ever ingest (much less digest) anything called a McNugget.
9. To save all parties involved any potential mortification, The Queen does not want "fries with that shake."
10. The Queen requires all employees of the Windsor McDonald's to curtsy whenever passing HRM's chip fryer.
11. The Queen distrusts the mascot, one Mr. Ronald McDonald. HRM's secret service has orders to dispatch of the disquieting individual should he approach the royal procession.
12. The Queen is not the least bit interested in swallowing "special sauce" of any kind, ever. Just ask Phillip.

500!!!!

Whew! Damn, bitches. This is the 500th posting on Can o' Whup-Ass!! Guess we should totally make it rock.

Okay...wait...okay. Inspiration will strike soon, guiding us to author yet another posting that's bound to make you cream your jeans, snap your cap and throw up in your mouth. Indeed that's our humble aim, day in and day out. And frankly, if this super duper ultra cool Dell desktop with all the pretty blinking lights and bleeping doo-hickies can't do it, nothing can. Okay. Wait.

(CUE: sound of crickets chirping)

While we're waiting, let us divert your attention to our vast archives. We have a myriad of retarded posts, exploring everything from Tanzanian ass-raping bat demons to Laura Bush, from bicycle-raping Scotsmen to Foxy Brown, and everything in between. Witness the meteoric rise of Aunt Betsy, from mousey house-frau to widely admired (and universally feared) advice columnist. Read all about poop. Overhear conversations. Lounge amongst erudite cinematic criticism, all written in the ancient form of haiku. Take a slow boat to China. Weep at our heartfelt eulogy for Tammy Faye (perhaps our fave). Read it all. Love it. Worship it. Suck it.

(CUE: sound of crickets chirping)

Wait...you don't have to suck it. But you do have to suffer. Cause unfortch, due to various inconvenient circumstances (unemployment, ennui, global warming), the author of this blog cannot henceforth guarantee daily entries (although we shall try). But fret not, butt-f*ckers: Sino-file, The Foxy News Channel, Ask Aunt Betsy and Brief Notes of Friendly Concern shall continue in earnest. Just perhaps not as much. 'Cause you just didn't clap hard enough. Tinkerbell is dead. We hope you're quite pleased with yourselves.

Remember to tip. Remember to browse our vast array of t-shirt/coffee mug/fagnet designs. Make purchases for those you adore. Treat yourself to a set of "Your Coffee Tastes Like Ass" mugs. You've wanted a set of 6 all your life, and now's your chance.

Can o' Whup-Ass shall continue. Watch this space for future posts so vile, retarded and offensive you're likely going to hell just for reading them.

And, as always...thanks, bitches.

XOXO
WAM

The Foxy News Channel: Kickin' it wit Amy Wizzinehouse, Bitches!

Somebody gimme a HO-oh! Waddup, mo-fos. Foxy be representin from da boogie down Park Slope, where a bitch crib be at. And chile, there be too many f*ckin crackas in da hood! Ebby where a sistah look, there be some white-ass Doris Day pushin tree o fo screaming marshmallow babies cross da street in a stroller. Work a bitch's nerve. Foxy gots places to be, yo. When a ho pull her SUV up to da corner she gots da whole von-f*ckin-Trapp family passin by. Hurry the f*ck up, mo-fos! I'll fro dat shit! Respeck. And deez cracka hos ack like they never seen no sistah who gots some welf. Las time a sistah go to da Starbucks fo one o' dem mocha-frappa-whatchamawhozits, some white-azz ho look at Foxy like she watchin da Discovery Channel. So I say "bitch, whatchoo lookin at?" and she say "yo breastesses be fallin out yo blouse" and I say "Foo, why you stare at a sistah's titty, you some kinda lesbo?" and she say "dat shizzle ain't approparate fo da chilluns." So I, Foxy B (always a lady), walk up to her chillun sittin in a stroller, stick my azz in the baby's face and squeeze out a fart so loud da windows be rattlin. "Do dat be approparate, mo-fo?" Dat baby start cryin and Doris Day be axin fo da manager, so Foxy split. F*ck dat. A ho really want a shake from Mickey D anyway. A bitch jus hope honkin a fart into cracka baby's face don't violate a ho's parole. Shizzle.

On da self improobmint tip, Foxy be readin some shizzle all 'bout some gay-ass elephant name Babar. Damn, chile. Dat Elephant retarded. He belong wit dat gay-ass monkey Curious George. Babar go chizzillin in Paris, wearin dat fugly-ass green suit. Foxy like to smack dat f*ggoty elephant back to da damn jungle, mo-fos. Dayum.

On dis week's edition of da Foxy News Channel, a bitch be spittin rhymes wit dat f*cked up ho call Amy Wizzinehouse. But dat ho can't get no visa for America, and I can't get no visa for no f*ggot-ass England (on account of bofe us sistahs be whatchoo call combictid felons). So a sistah gots to show dis damn inna-voo wit gay-azz sock puppitz. Check it:

This be da Wizzinehouse sock puppitz. Dat ho gots the ghettoest hairdo Foxy evah seen. Look like she done git her hair did by Sheniqua Thomas up on one fo-de-fo street and Martin Loofer King Boule-whatzit. Dis bitch is crazzay-zay.

Dis be da Foxy sock puppitz, mo-fos. It sho be hard to make a brown tube sock sex-ay. You gots to imaginate some nice-ass titties and a ba-donk-a-donk so fine it make yo punk azz cry like a m*therf*ckin f*ggit. Respeck, foo.

You ready for dis shizzle, dawgs? Okay, den. Foxy gots to put on deez damn puppitz wif-out f*ckin up her tips I jus got did. Whoop! There it be!

FOXY B: Somebody gimme a HO-oh! Dis be Foxy B, foo. I be representin wif my girl Amy Wizzinehouse, mo-fos!
AMY WIZZINEHOUSE: 'Alo, pet. Give us a fag.
FB: 'Scooz me?
AW: I'm a bird wot likes to puff on the odd fag, got a spare then?
FB: Do I look like a ho dat gotz spare f*ckin f*ggits layin round? Respeck a ho, I fro dat sh*t.
AW: I believe you yanks call 'em ciggies.
FB: Oh! You tryin to get one o' Foxy's men-tall bajinya slimz? Sh*zzle, ho! All you gots to do is ax a bitch!
AW: Fanks, pet.
FB: So, Amy-bitch.
AW: Wot, luv?
FB: Oooooo! Whatchoo doin? Dat shizzle nass-tay!
AW: I'm a bird wot likes to jab the odd hypodermic of horse twixt me piggies.
FB: You tryin to tell a ho you stickin needles of smack in yo stank-azz toes? Oooooo!
AW: Fancy a jab yourself, then?
FB: No fanks, ho. Foxy jus got her peddy did. I gots some queshinz to ax yo ass, bitch.
AW: Then you gotz to lay dat shizzle on a bird.
FB: Fanks. Foxy be hearin shizzizzle 'bout yo azz goin to da hospizzizzle.
AW: Yeah. So give us a fag, then.
FB: Foxy just give yo azz a men-tall bajinya slim, ho.
AW: I'm a bird wot lose lit fags up me tw*t by the carton, luv.
FB: Foxy don't gots no mo. Oooooooo! What be dat??
AW: Wot, then?
FB: Bitch, yo toof jus fall out yo head!
AW: A toof?
FB: Yeah, ho. A toof! One of yo teef!
AW: Oh, cheers. Fanks. Me teef keep fallin out me gulliver by the fistfull. Wot's a bird to do?
FB: Ho, dat shizzle be triflin.
AW: Care for a puff, then?
FB: Huh?
AW: I'm a bird wot fancy the odd puff o' rock.
FB: You cookin crack? Oh, chile. Dat's ghetto.
AW: So you fancy a puff, then?
FB: Um. Okay. But don't you go tellin nobody.
AW: Me lips are sealed, pet.
FB: Not even yo extra f*ggits.

This Week in Poop Part 17: You Only Poop Twice

• THE NAKED POOP LADIES OF EBERHOLZEN: One day, two classy broads from the German hamlet of Eberholzen decided it would be a good idea to go to a cow farm, fill up some panty hose with cow poop, and use the resulting "poop bombs" as party favors at a celebration marking the German soccer team's victory over Turkey. Unfortch, their plan went awry when they fell into a cow poop tank, crawled out, fled to the surrounding fields and discarded their clothes. Local authorities have been instructed to be on the alert for a duo of poop-smeared frauleins romping au naturale across the idyllic countryside. Are these two hot babes single? Speaking of which, has anyone seen Merkel lately? Where exactly is she? Hmmmm...
• THE GEORGE BUSH POOP PLANT: Reagan and JFK got airports. Eisenhower got a tunnel. Hell, even Hoover got a dam. Now, the cheeky hell-bound liberal sodomites of San Francisco will be voting soon on whether to re-name the Oceanside Sewage Treatment Plant after our beloved leader George W. Bush. As Southern Methodist University in Texas is mounting an enormous protest against the proposed GWB presidential library, the butt-humping hippies of San Francisco seem to be 80% in favor of the Dubya Poop Plant. While cynics believe it's a partisan attempt to besmear Bush's hallowed legacy, others simply like the thought of sitting on their thunderbox and sending their poop to the Dubya with every flush, thus reversing a tiresome eight-year trend.
• THE POOP HOUSES OF KARANPUR: Next time your VCR isn't working and you're losing your temper with Vishna Vindaloo (aka "Fred") on the other end of the "help" line, remember that it's entirely possible that the poor schmuck lives in a poop house. In some areas of India it's not at all unusual to find a village constructed entirely of cow flop. Cows, of course, are worshipped as deities in India; so perhaps it's considered enlightened to live in a split level bungalow made out of holy sh*t. However, isn't India hit by about 40 monsoons every other week? How exactly do cowpie cottages hold up (or not) during the rainy season? Unless they've taken to mixing cement in with Bossie's cud, this practice strikes us as highly impractical. Oh, and gross.
• EAT SOME CHINESE POOP FISH: China, which has lately given the world poisonous toothpaste, lethal dog food, dangerous toys and killer pharmaceuticals, is also exporting poop fish. Aquaculture (or, the practice of farming fish) is a huge industry there. Unfortch, many of these fish farms have raw sewage dumped into them on a daily basis. Chinese fish account for a large percentage of the fish sold in the U.S. So that yummy plate of "Southern Catfish" you ordered at Bubba Gumps could very well have gills caked with "recycled" mu-shu pork, if you get our drift.
• THEM OL' POOP FIELDS BACK HOME: The great state of Iowa, recently ravaged by storms and flooding, has another cross to bear. It seems that every sewage plant (and, ickily enough, hog poop reservoir, of which there are apparently oodles) overflowed and emptied into the flood waters. Health officials are now telling everyone who came in contact with floodwaters to see a doctor. We hate to add insult to injury (actually, we don't); but Deuteronomy tells us to bury our poop, because God walks among us and is HIGHLY averse to scraping our poop from his sandals. So if indeed God walks in Des Moines (as folks in Des Moines insist He does), He prolly has pig plop oozing betwixt His toes and is getting more pissed off by the second.
• AND FINALLY: Zimbabwe is holding elections today. Robert Mugabe (who smells like poop, looks like poop, and turned his nation into poop) is widely expected to win, as his goons have intimidated the opposition to the point where they've withdrawn from an election they would have otherwise won. Folks are being forced at gunpoint to go to the polling centers and threatened to memorize the serial numbers of their ballots, so that their vote for Mugabe can be later verified. Misery holds dominion over this God-foresaken nation, which only a few years ago was the shining beacon of post-colonial Africa. We here at COWA are pacifists. But can't someone bust a cap in the noggin of this despotic lump of hyena crap? The world will cheer.

Happy Pride, bitches
XOXO
WAM

Bend Over, Pole Smokers! It's the @#!&% News Roundup with Sailor Talkin' Sue!!

NEW YORK -- Fresh after lobbing the f-bomb (the one that rhymes with "truck," not "maggot") on live television—thereby scarring the delicate psyche of her New York audience and endangering her illustrious, booze-fueled career—butch anchornegress Sue Simmons took lemons and made some g*ddamned lemonade.

Since launching her niche-targeted specialty news magazine, the raunchy teleprompter reader has gained a small but rabidly loyal audience, all of whom think a "V-Chip" is an IUD. Here at COWA, we are proud once again to bring you an exclusive peek at the most recent telecast of The @#!&% News Roundup with Sailor Talkin' Sue. As always, you're welcome in advance.

Wilkommen, pud-wankers! My name is Sue "muff-stuffin sphincter b*tch" Simmons, and this is the *ss-banging news:

• Those g*ddamned Bible boning goat f*ckers at The Westboro Baptist Church (the *ss-spelunking sh*twads who picket the c*cksucking funerals of dead f*cking soldiers) have announced they're going to load every fat-*ss tw*t in their inbred Jesus-humping family of retarded hillbilly f*ggots onto a g*ddamned bus so they can protest the d*ck-smoking memorial of that butt-f*cker George Carlin. They claim Mr. Carlin is currently being *ss-raped by beelzebub for his g*ddamned potty mouth.
• Oxycontin-addicted fat-*ss and Republican sp*rm-gargler Rush Limbaugh opened his c*ck-throating lard-hole to opine that fetus-f*cking Democrats enjoy "bending over and grabbing their ankles" for voters of the nappy-headed pick-a-ninny spear-chucking variety, and for b*tt-humping d*ck-banging f*ggots. Mr. Limbaugh, neocon c*m-dumpster and blubber-choked hophead, has used this g*ddamned anal analogy before, when in 2005 he accused baby-boning fart-felching RNC Chairman Ken "suck-me-til-I-ooze" Mehlman of "bending over and grabbing his ankles" when he offered an *ss-licking apology to the NAACP. It has become rather g*ddamned apparent that Rush "is-it-in-yet?" Limbaugh's sweaty mant*ts start lactating at the c*ck-smoking thought of dropping his sh*t-stained Dockers and getting plowed up the poo-chute by a size f*cking ten jizz-spewing negro trouser pony.
• Creepy g*ddamned midget Vern Troyer (aka "mini-f*cking-me") has released a nasty-*ss barf-inducing f*ck flick wherein his skanky c*nt-fisting ex uses the hideous g*ddamned oompa-loompa in much the same way that Buddhist f*ggot Richard "The Dalai-Lama-f*cked-me-in-the-*ss-and-all-I-got-was-this-g*ddamned-t-shirt" Gere used a sh*t stained gerbil back in the g*ddamned day.
• Widely adored fat-*ss and wealthy g*ddamned m*ff-fisting negress Oprah "sniff-me-where-I-poo" Winfrey grossed the f*ck out of everyone at Mandela's *ss-raping birthday party when she took off her stank-*ss shoes and pranced her fat f*cking *ss around barefoot. Cow-felching celebrities lost their g*ddamned $5,000 dinners at the butt-boning sight of Oprah's m*therfucking bunions, which where bigger than c*cksucking rhino scroti.
• D*ck smoking f*ggots and crack smoking g*ddamned celebrities creamed their f*cking jeans in Milan recently, when the Fashion World's top *ss-banging designers took a break from giving rusty f*cking trombones to anorexic heroin addicts to unveil their ugly-*ss men's 2009 summer collections. Alexander "finger-bang-my-butthole" McQueen showed the kind of "f*ck-me-in-the-*ss" silhouettes that appeal primarily to fart-felching Fire Island sphinter-f*ckers. Meanwhile, the "fist-me-til-I-fart" Prada show was all about a bunch of g*ddamned fairies mincing about dressed as nut-gargling *ss-bangers. Versace's line seemed aimed not only at discerning jizz-guzzling butt-lickers, but also sh*t-packing jetset c*ck-sitters.

We pause now for a c*nt-fisting word from our *ss-boning sponsor, Depends. Depends: for the wrinkle-*ss pants-pooping grandma on the g*ddamned go. Keep your butt-licking *sses parked, m*therf*ckers. We'll be right the f*ck back.

China is Leady for Crose-up! We to Making Lucky Fun Final Prepares on Glorious Duper-Super Orympics!! Yay!!

Hello for going! We make welcome face!! Soon, most lucky happy nation of China be smiley so happy proud we to exprode! But we not really exprode. That is just an explession. BUT WE SO HAPPY SMILEY WE FEEL LIKE TO EXPRODE! YAY!! ORYMPICS!!! HIPPY HIPPY HOOLAY!!!

But before we to exprode, China to making final prepares, okie-dokie? We to prove it, Mister Sassy-face! Here, we are to providing a rist of flequentry assed questionings for lucky happy touristy peoples coming for to adore glorious Chinese Orympics!

FLEQUENTRY-ASSED QUESTIONINGS OF PERTAINING NATURE FOR DUPER-SUPER ORYMPICS:

Q: I HAVE MY HEART SET ON GOING TO THE OLYMPICS, BUT I CAN'T GET A VISA. WHY?
A: Lucky fun China Government peoples no to allowing belligerent complainy peoples to Orympics. You sound complainy. First you to saying your hotel room needs more paper for toilet, then you to saying Beijing air smell like yak butt. Next thing you are to knowing, you leading Fallun Gong-y peasant revolt in Tiananmen Square and CNN to put cameras on you when China girlies are to winning goldstuffs in synchronize swimmy time! You to stay in frowny sad America and watch on that TV made by frowny Japanese peoples! How you are liking those apples?

Q: MY CHILDREN KEEP HAVING NIGHTMARES ABOUT YOUR CREEPY MASCOTS. HOW DO I CONVINCE THEM THAT THEY ARE HARMLESS CUTE LITTLE CARTOONS?
A: Some rude sad frowny peoples are to spreading unfortunate fibby-stuffs about our mascots (or "Fuwa"). They are to saying the Fuwa (which to translating into Engrish are to mean "Scary Happy Fun Toys") are to bringing bad ruck. They say that Lingling, the jorry panda Fuwa make shakey fun earthquake to happen in Sichuan. They say that Huanhuan (the Fuwa who to looking like a happy baby on fire) is to causing smelly French peoples to protest orympic torch. Now they to saying that Beibei (the Fuwa who is water girly with fish hat) is to make splashy happy floods happening. While Chinese believe natural disaster stuffs are signs from heaven that the empire has lost its mandate, that not true this time! Shakey silly earthquake was to show world we care about our non-Tibet peoples! If we to catch peoples who to spread these lies, we make shooty pow-pow! The Fuwa are duper-super rucky! We make stompy-feet!

Q: LAST TIME I WENT TO CHINA YOUR FOOD WAS BARFY. I WENT TO A RESTAURANT AND THEY SERVED DOG FACE CHOW MEIN. I THOUGHT I WAS GONNA HURL. ARE YOU GONNA HAVE NORMAL FOOD FOR US NON-ORIENTAL TYPES?
A: We to send orders to Chinese restaurants to change menus. Now, instead of calling it "Happy Choppy Schnauzer Penis Pu-pu Platter" we to calling it "Spicy Meat Yummy Tummy." Or instead of to calling it "Kitty-Cat Lung with Eel Poop Cream Sauce," we to calling it "Silly Fun Yum Stew." Or instead of to calling it "Fallun Gong Eyeball Skewers Sauteed in Ginger Pig Sperm," we to calling it "General Pao's Yummy Olive Medley." And we send expricit instluctions to restaurants not to play pee-pee joke in your coke. Anymore.

Q: IS IT TRUE CHINESE PEOPLE POOP STANDING UP? HOW DO THEY DO THAT? IS IT CAUSE THEY HAVE NO BUTTS? I'M AFRAID OF POOPING WHILE STANDING UP, I HAVE ARTHRITIS AND VERTIGO. AND WHAT IF I EAT SOME OF YOUR GROSS FOOD AND IT COMES OUT IN A SPRAY?
A: We to dig out 8,000 peoples from earthquake who don't remember their names. So we train them to help foreign peoples to make poop time. They to help you balancing over squat holes. If you to fall in, they to give you a ladder. If you to spray, they to turn hose on you. And they to learning Engrish explessions, like "it burn when it come out too, right soldier boy?" and "you drop too many kids in pool! put a cork in that yankee butthole!" and "you too stinky! you make courtesy flush time or I blow chunks on your reeboks!" Everything is being hunky-dory,